


About a Bruise

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Play, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mouth Play, NSFW, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21750301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: After a month of doting, loving, adoring Steve, because he requires the time and trust of convention, you sink to the floor and say, “Will you do something for me?”
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 258





	1. About a Bruise

He’s never had it like this.

Steve Rogers still gets butterflies when he undresses in front of you. Carved out of marble by the precise and masterful hand of Erksine’s serum, yet he still stands a little hunched, a little conscious of himself.

You’re confident. In him, more than anything. You’ve always been the instigator, or at least played the part. Steve’s nerves don’t eclipse his lust, no. But they do make him careful.

Too careful.

Gentle sex only. He holds you like an infant in need of swaddling. Kisses you slow and soft like your lips are buttercream. You love it, but sometimes you want to coax something else out of Captain America.

Something baser. Darker.

So, you get on your knees one opportune night after he gets a sip of Asgardian mead. Liquid courage— just a little.

After a month of doting, loving, adoring Steve, because he requires the time and trust of convention, you sink to the floor and say, “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.” He whispers. Your eyes are swimming pools engulfed in dusk and midnight— shimmering secrets. He’d do anything. Especially when you’re kissing his thighs and raking your nails over the fabric of his jeans like that.

Steve hardly wants to fuck with the lights on. But he’s caught off-guard and buzzing.

“Will you—” A playful bite and it makes him gasp. “Will you come on my face?”

He catches himself against a counter, legs feeling like jelly. “Wh-what?”

Your hands unbuckle his belt, still supplicated with chin on his knee, “You said _anything._..”

It’s filthy. Your thighs clench in anticipation. The impeding moment where Steve bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut and grunts— god, you love that sound. Ragged. Overwhelmed. Always too short. You want to hear it more often.

A muffled jingle as you slide the denim down and marvel at the way his cock rises from his boxers. Majestic, heavy, wondrous thing. You love it and he rarely lets you get a good look at it. Shy boy.

He’s blushing pink when you slip it off, letting the tip brush against your cheek. You nose the underside of him, hands up and down his strong legs. He smells warm and musky. Lovely, like always.

Steve’s tilts his head limp over his back.

He shudders when you begin with your tongue first before eager lips stretch to fit him, guiding until he’s nestled in your mouth. And then you move, deliberately measured, building a lazy pace, sluicing him up with spit.

“Ah, shit…” Steve’s words are already betraying him. You smile as his cock pops out of your mouth.

“How’s that? Still wanna go to bed?” Thick lashes framing glittering doe-eyes peer up at him. Purposely coy. “Or do you want to stay here?”

He returns to himself. Dazed, he blinks at the bright lights and the glossy tiled floor. The marble countertop of the sink where he grips like a lifeline.

The guest restroom down the hall. Turn a corner and twenty people are sitting on couches, drinking cocktails and cajoling. Your mouth back on him wipes the thoughts from his brain.

Squelching when you push him back past your molars, crushing your tongue.

You slide him out, voice hoarse and breathy and it chills him to the bone the way you whisper, “Door’s not even locked. Someone could come in at any time.”

With a two-handed fisting, you squeeze deft strokes, slippery with saliva. It’s amazing, he thinks, how you look so innocent while doing the kinds of things he tries not to think about in public. A determined suck and you cup his balls. Fuck, he loves that. Won’t say it, but you know it, too.

“Make me look so pretty with your come on my face.”

Even though he’s the one jammed halfway down your esophagus, Steve chokes. It stirs him, and your eyebrow raises the same time he pulses. Improper for Captain America to be turned on by that, isn’t it?

He sees the twinkle in your eye. Knows you know. Knows he’s fucked.

He’s trying to be as quiet as possible while you work, but his heart is beating too fast, breath snagged between his teeth and lungs on fire. All the blood pumping out of his heart is going straight down—and damn it, he’s so fucking hard. Always so hard with you.

“Jesus Christ. Oh, fuck, honey.” Bad words from such a good boy.

Coquettish licks on his head contrast the feverish grip of your hands. One is curled tight at his base, the other moving irresponsibly fast, fingers crooked and pistoning over the rest. The restroom is silent like a tomb, and he imagines that the echo might bounce all the way out into the goddamn yard. Maybe he doesn’t care, though.

A kiss to the tip before you rub your cheek on his thigh like a cat. Steve’s hips begin to rock, hungry for more when you slow. His palm plants itself on the side of your head, fingers twined through the updo you’d fashioned your locks into a few hours ago. “ _Don’t_ stop.”

There it is. That dark thing.

He’s never fucked like this.

Suddenly bold because he’s at the end of his rope and about to blow—completely collapse and pour down your throat and all over that pretty dress you chose to wear to the party. Little cherries, long-hemmed, low-cut. You’ve set an entire trap he willingly fell into.

Hooded blue eyes meet yours, looking down the bridge of his nose, lips parted to match. Panting. Grunting. Shedding his golden boy skin and turning savage. “You want this, sweetheart?”

You nod and bite your lip, exhilarated smile stretching out from the sides of your teeth. Steve fists your hair until you yelp at the sting. He slaps your hands away, hisses at the strands of viscous dribble sliding down your forearms and takes over.

You gasp when he presses his cock against your face, rubbing it right over rosy cheeks you’d perfectly applied blush to. Over the contours of your jaw, your eyebrows. A slap of it to your chin.

Nasty. Filthy. Delicious. Bad boy.

Stutters from his throat, ragged murmurs, clipped consonants of curse words and taunts— _You want it? Yeah? You want this all over your face, pretty girl? Fuck. What if someone walks in? Someone’s gonna see—ah… Gonna see you takin’ my big load._

And it’s the shocked silence of your astonished eyes and falling-open mouth that does him in. Rendered speechless that he’s yanking your head back-- and the tiny wince—the split second that your face jerks—he’s done for.

There it is. That sound you’ve been hungry to hear. Steve Rogers snarling like an animal as he leans into a final pump, hips juddering forward into his fist, fixed on the way your face receives him. And goddamn, he thinks.

He’s never loved a girl like you.

Pretty as a painting, with thick strokes of creamy white in heavy diagonal lines. You catch some in your mouth, lick it off your lips, giggle blissfully at the tang.

Knees still planted on the floor, and as Steve regains his senses, he’s glad your dress is long tonight.

-

On the couch, you sit one leg crossed over the other, chin on your fist as you listen to Wanda tell a story. Bright and alert, laughing along to all the right jokes. Bucky hands you a drink before he makes his way back to Steve by the pool table.

“Gone a long time.” He mentions casually.

“What’s that?”

Bucky pauses behind the rim of his whiskey, “I said, you were gone a long time. Came back lookin’ a little rough around the edges.”

“Hm.” He probably does look a little rough, even after you combed your fingers through his hair and smoothed the wrinkles from his jeans. Kissed his mouth and he could still smell that pungent sweetness on your skin after you rinsed.

Bucky watches him shoot and sink two solids, catches your eyes across the room roaming. Steve’s so drawn to you that he perks up a little naturally.

New love. A little wild at the seams, tearing the good Captain America to wicked little pieces in your hands. Bucky laughs quietly because it’s about damn time.

Fresh-faced, more beautiful than before, Steve thinks. Hair down and fluffy-full, haphazardly settled in place. He can’t help but stare. A little red smudge on the corner of your eye when you scrubbed the mascara off, running along with him down your cheek. It’s still swollen like the plump edges of your lips from overwork. He swallows thickly, catches himself thinking too much on it.

From across the room, you find his ruddy cheeks and hold him in a knowing gaze. Then, your tongue slips out shamelessly—with Bucky in the audience and all—and you lick the corners of your mouth. Naughty.

The butterflies so faithful to his tummy flutter at the sight. Whirlwind flapping growing in a darkening storm. You, in the center of his hurricane on all fours.

Bad, bad boy.

Steve finds himself wondering about your red knees under the dress and how long they might take to bruise.


	2. About a Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over a mid-morning snack, Bucky says, “You know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

He’s been cracked to pieces. Every virtuous defense he’s built brick-by-brick has been torn down and tossed over your shoulder. He’s exposed, but not fearful. No longer prey but wild in the tall grass, slinking with sharp and taut shoulders, ready to pounce if he so pleases.

Gentle sex gives way to new play, hides its burning maiden face at what else arrives in the bedroom. Silk ribbons over eyes. Lace over supple skin. Steve’s mouth, all over every surface, invoking every command.

 _On your hands and knees, honey._ Still soft.

 _Show me that pretty mouth._ Still loving.

 _Gonna fuck you sore._ Brand fucking new.

And although you’ve instigated the fire, it still sears your insides with heat— always a little unexpectedly. Captain America’s angel boy face murmuring debauched commands requires some reckoning.

Over a mid-morning snack, Bucky says, “You know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

It stokes your curiosity and you lean your cheek into your palm over the counter, cut of apple crunching between your teeth, “Am I in trouble, Buck?”

He laughs, looks across the room where Steve enters and takes the rest of the slice from your lax hand, “Oh yeah. Lots of trouble.” Bucky leans in, too, until his profile is entirely hidden behind yours. “Thank me tomorrow.”

His finger reaches forward until he is twirling a strand of your hair and louder now, he says, “New shampoo? Smells nice.”

Steve grins blindingly when he pulls up a chair. Pleasantries are exchanged, but the lock of your hair in Bucky’s hand still coils like a spring and you’re suddenly wary of the possible moment when– as all springs do when twisted too tightly—it snaps.

They talk about workout routines as Steve places his hand on your leg. Bucky suggests a new stretch and Steve taps on your knee. Bucky mentions a pulled muscle, a personal anecdote about ice baths, and Steve’s fingers slip between your thighs.

-

He asks you to ride him with plump pink lips high on your neck— just under your ear. That little spot where it tickles and makes goosebumps bloom down to your toes. The spot he knows you love best. Steve slips his hands under your shirt, pulls it over your head and gently pushes you back until he can see.

The curtains are half drawn in his room, sun streaming through the corner of the blinds and cutting stark yellow stripes over your shoulder and breasts. You ride slowly, watch him watching you. Lovers open and exposed to each other, floating in an afternoon glow of warm affection.

He smiles under your gaze, bright slivers of light casting over the lines of his body. Gilded. Angelic. Deserving to be worshiped and adored. Your mind wanders, absently smiling when he tilts just right, hips digging upward, pulling forth a sigh from your lips. He always feels good. In the mornings, at night. After a siesta. In a utility closet. Poolside at sunset. Anywhere, really. Always pretty in his boyish way. Hair mussed. Eyes sweet. Kisses tender.

“Are you thinking about Bucky?”

You freeze. Brows furrow as you stare down at him, baffled. Steve’s hands grip your waist, push you further down, moving your body is more deliberate motions and it _pinches_ — _bites_. You wince the same time your heart skips a beat. New play. Maybe.

Bucky’s words rattle around your brain faintly, sounding a bit more flippant than you remembered them last. _Oh yeah. Lots of trouble._ And ironically, now you _are_ thinking about Bucky, and Steve knows.

“I didn’t say you could stop.”

He surges up, catches your head in his palm and snarls against your neck where your pulse begins to leap. “Didn’t say you could think about anyone else.”

Steve’s grip is searing hot as he yanks until you’re nearly folded backwards on the bed. Deftly, he rearranges your legs and then you are pinned down with his cock still buried inside, even harder than before and it frightens you a little how he hovers.

Predatorial. Territorial. Not angelic or boyish anymore and it rushes all the way up to your chest until it cascades down your shoulders. Excitement laced with fear. Euphoria and panic folded inside lust.

He sinks deeper and you yelp in reply. Afternoon light becomes muted by roaming clouds, but it scatters through, desperate to find his golden skin. When it catches, Steve shines like a god.

Your god glowers.

“You’re _mine_.”

Fingers hook inside a mouth shocked open and he stares with those divinely pretty eyes. _This_ , they say silently as they probe your tongue and cheek. The same hand, now soaked with spit, reaches south to your cunt, replaces the emptiness when he pulls away and _digs_. _This._

Your breath hitches in anticipation for his next destination, shivers rolling through your body. The very thought of him—the knowing of him saying it, breathing it to life…

Sticky now, he smears further down. His wet fingers draw a slow circle over your puckered hole. Then, a prod. _This._

_All mine._

Another press and he sinks in, pad stretching tight muscle as you whimper and whine. His cock returns, too, and Steve pushes his finger against that thin layer of heat that separates him from himself.

Angel blue eyes burn black. You’re no more than a rag doll under his command, limbs scrambling to find some method of grounding yourself when he flips you over. Unyieldingly rough and thrusting with fever, he fills you completely, cock and hands in every hole as you quake and mewl beneath on your elbows and knees, not entirely sure they won’t give out any second.

“Tell me, sweetheart.” Steve grunts, leaning into a thrust, “I want to hear you say it.”

You can’t. You toe the line of this new game, but it’s hard to obey when he’s in four-deep and fucking your face nearly with his whole hand. He knows it. He knows you know it.

“Tell me.” Steve says again, mouth dangerously close to your neck, breath skimming up the tender skin where it tickles on the verge of pleasurable and half an inch up further and—his tongue darts out. Licks a long stripe to the bottom of your earlobe and you whine in agony, entire body seizing around him, mouth gagged full. “No?” He asks again, grinning now.

Dangerous now.

“Need me to fuck you stupid first? Fuck every thought out of your brain? Fuck you open and raw?”

You could cry. Cry to hear those words pour out of him like a tidal wave. It sounds like roaring in your ears when he pants, crashing water slick and squelching when he drags his cock against the pressure of his own fingertips. Rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. Stretching and filling, and you, stuffed full and blissed out, eyes so far up toward the ceiling you’re seeing outer space.

“Fuck you as much as I want? In any way I want, in any hole I want? Come in you wherever I want? Is that what you want, pretty girl?”

Allowing you one relief, Steve takes out a finger from your mouth, still pressing down on your tongue with three—just enough so you can beg.

“Y-yes, Steve… please. God, yes.”

He’s everywhere. Beginning, middle, end. Your Alpha and your Omega. Your Big Bang and black hole. Every nerve ending flayed alive and owned completely by him. And yes, you could weep now, weep to know that he’s open and raw, too, filthy and fucked out. And all yours.

The orgasm blindsides you. The strangled gasp from your mouth is caught tight by Steve’s palm and your body shakes uncontrollably, falling forward as you crash. Steve tugs you back on your knees, gives you nothing but more of him.

Your pleads only drive him deeper, fuels his resolve and lust and first, he hisses, snarls at you, commands you to be still… and then… then…

Steve quiets, nothing else to hear in his room other than the squelch of your flesh when he turns you on your side and fits himself behind. Nothing to hear but the slap of his thighs on your ass when he continues. Nothing to hear but your hysterical breath, desperate to catch respite from his punishment and adoration.

He listens to the frantic heartbeat inside your chest, devotes himself to the pleasure, and breathes. Low and deep, and as his fingers work in your ass and mouth, they stroke out a liturgy:

 _Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine_.

And your quivering response, cunt gripping him in uncontrolled waves, trembling like overripe fruit in a summer gust. _Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours._

_Pick me. Hold me. Crush me. Consume me._

_All yours_.

Briefly, before you fall again because you can’t help it and no one can save you from being lost entirely in the mind-numbing pleasure of Steven Grant Rogers– your angel boy, your glowering, greedy, golden god.

Yes, you think.

You’ll have to thank Bucky tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that'll be enough Steve smut for at least a month or so :)


End file.
